


Unplanned, Unlikely, and Unprecedented

by Spyre



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: A Cure for Boredom - Freeform, AU, BDSM, Established Sherlock Holmes/John Watson, Fluff, Johnlock - Freeform, M/M, Mycroft-centric, Sex Club, mystrade
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-28
Updated: 2017-01-28
Packaged: 2018-09-20 13:08:02
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,166
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9492488
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Spyre/pseuds/Spyre
Summary: Mycroft. Sex club. There is a new, mysterious Dom.... though, Dear Reader, things are not what they seem in this fic. Sexy with a touch o' the fluff.





	

**Author's Note:**

  * For [emmagrant01](https://archiveofourown.org/users/emmagrant01/gifts).
  * Inspired by [A Cure For Boredom](https://archiveofourown.org/works/335385) by [emmagrant01](https://archiveofourown.org/users/emmagrant01/pseuds/emmagrant01). 



> A work done in the emmagrant01: "A Cure for Boredom" universe. This fic wouldn't exist without it.

Mycroft had been away for quite a while, and despite this, he was still quietly recognized by the longstanding patrons. He acknowledged a few with a small smile, an arched brow or a slight nod. He wore his usual play attire, a monochromatic black-on-black suit tailored exquisitely to his trim form, complete with a red, silk tie. He circled the perimeter of the main level, sticking to the winding path among the shadows, pillars and tastefully discreet nooks.

"Dearest!" came a purring, deep voice he instantly recognized, and the accompanying hip grope from behind did not surprise him. He was pulled backwards into the arms of a 6'3" Adonis.

Mycroft could easily picture the cheekbones, jawline and physique that belonged to that sinful timbre. Everything about the man spoke of impeccable breeding, as well as hours of tedious weight lifting and tanning. The blonde hair happened to come naturally to him. The bright white, perfectly aligned teeth, however, were otherwise professionally achieved.

His name in this place was Samuel Keeding. Though Mycroft, through deduction alone, knew his true identity and the most powerful roots of the man's family tree. They had never spoken outside of these clandestine walls.

Too, it was one of Mycroft's personal rules that he not use his professional resources for this particular facet of his personal life. This club was among a handful of other similar clubs peppering the globe, and they were places of respite for Mycroft. This one happened to be in London.

"I have missed this tight body of yours," Samuel growled before pressing a kiss to the side of Mycroft's neck.

Mycroft smiled at this, a lazy, cat-like expression that transformed him from Sir Serious to Mister Trouble in a heartbeat. A small part of him wanted to lean back into Samuel, and let the younger man do what he pleased, but Mycroft had come for more tonight. He needed something else, unnameable. He would know it when he saw it.

He pivoted gracefully from the embrace, facing his former playmate with an artful inclination of his head and a few feet between them, "And it gladdens me greatly to see you are as beautiful as always, darling Samuel."

Samuel's smile turned wistful then, as if by Mycroft's response, he suddenly knew Mycroft would not be playing with him tonight. Samuel did not know Mycroft's real name, obviously. To most at the club, Mycroft Holmes was Miles Dearest. The cringe worthy surname had most definitely not been his idea. Samuel delighted in calling him Dearest. It had been a puerile joke among the regulars. Mycroft allowed it with some little discomfort.

"I should have guessed you would turn up around here sooner rather than later," Samuel stated cutely before walking with Mycroft to a booth overlooking one of the main stages.

Mycroft was going to ask why but his ever perceptive gaze calculated the situation just before it began to unfold.

"The newest main attraction is what brought you here. Understandable," Samuel was speaking over the subdued thrum of music. He had apparently already ordered their drinks from the bar. One glass each was delivered, filled with ice and cognac.

Mycroft was busy watching a man being led, blind folded, onto the platform. He was secured, spread eagle, to a frame. He was already sweating from what had to be anticipation and anxiety. The subject was new to the scene, and though this was not his first time, something was obviously keying him up.

A new figure stepped into the gentle, golden sphere of light. He was of average height, and build, with short hair underneath a black scarf. His face was mostly hidden behind a black, leather mask.

It reminded Mycroft of The Princess Bride, except that is where the similarities ended. The master wore crossing straps of leather and silver rings. He wore loose, dark harem pants and black slippers. An odd choice.

The crowd was notably larger now, the tension grew exponentially. Mycroft watched the ring of onlookers as much as he watched the stage. People were transfixed by this newcomer. Interesting.

"Who is he?" Mycroft asked, picking up his drink as he watched Samuel's face for clues.

"I figured you'd know. He calls himself Taylor. And he is the newest, best thing since sliced Beatle."

Mycroft scoffed and rolled his eyes. He went back to observing the show and its audience.

It was a powerful performance to be sure but Mycroft's enjoyment of it was very nearly ruined. He could not as yet, and from this distance, make sense of what he was seeing. His deductions regarding Taylor were contradictory and counterintuitive. It chafed his patience to no end. Of course, his agitation could also be mostly attributed to the unbidden twitch of interest in his trousers.

Authority figure. Somewhat reserved and shy in public life. How could that be? Not very highly educated. Comfortable with his body. Comfortable with violence. Military, perhaps. The clothing Taylor wore just did not suit him! He wore it all rather delightfully well, of course, but to Mycroft's infinitely discerning eye, the outfit looked borrowed.

Someone seriously into the scene would not own borrowed clothing for long. Taylor was totally new to the scene, then. But how could he be with such a flawless and magnetic performance?

Unless these details were meant to mislead. But what people other than Mycroft would notice such details? Why go to all that trouble?

Mycroft was frowning. When he came to himself, he was sitting alone in the booth and the show was over. His arousal had flagged, and he was grateful for that.

Despite his perplexity, or maybe because of it, Mycroft now thought he may have a name for that unnameable thing that he had been craving: Taylor. His frown smoothed away as he watched Taylor sweetly caress and soothe the shivering, grinning idiot now untethered from the platform. The blindfold was removed from the aforementioned idiot, and the master shared a wicked, intimate grin with him.

Mycroft bit the inside of his lip and shifted in his seat.

Enter: Detective Inspector Lestrade in an uncharacteristically fitted white collared shirt, top few buttons undone. He plopped down in the booth with Mycroft and sighed, "Great show, innit?" The detective took a swig of beer from the tall, expensive glass in his hand.

Mycroft's eyes nearly bugged out of his head at the sudden intrusion, "What are _you_ doing here?"

"Well, hello to you, too, _Miles_."

Mycroft fumed silently.

"It's okay. Just call me Greg, if you can manage it. Been a while."

Mycroft actually harrumphed.

"Wasn't going to bother you but figured I owed you a heads up on an investigation we have going here," Greg gave a meaningful tilt of his head in the direction of Taylor.

Mycroft stared blankly at Lestrade, lips tightening into a thin line, perturbed.

Lestrade's ruggedly handsome face lit up in a smile as he glanced down into his beer.

Mycroft's innards did a little flip-flop at the horribly charming sight. He found himself raking his eyes up and down the man. His annoyance transformed into curiosity as the detective met his calculating gaze with one of tentative wickedness.

Lestrade reigned himself in, cleared his throat and broke the moment with effort, "Any information you could offer on a triple homicide not four blocks from here?"

Mycroft let his contempt show plainly, leaning back into the seat, "I am not my brother, at your beck and call for such minor whims of macabre circumstance."

Lestrade was not phased by the elder Holmes brother and his acerbic attitude. In fact, the aggressive tone in the man's voice awoke something rather primal in him, "I take that as a 'no'."

The detective lifted his pint, noting how the eyes of one Mycroft Holmes followed the movement and came to watch Lestrade's mouth. He took a long, deliberate swallow of his beer... And then licked at his lips.

"You know," Lestrade started decisively, voice dropping into a mollifying masculinity that had Mycroft holding his breath with a shiver in his spine and gut, "If you could stop getting your fancy knickers all in a bunch and let me... I am pretty sure we could have a good time."

Mycroft felt a rush of warmth climb up his chest and color his cheeks. Thoughts of Taylor long decimated, Mycroft realized that _, Oh, yes_. This was what he wanted.

Mycroft swallowed hard out of an uncomplicated and deepening attraction. He arched a delicate brow, surprised at the other man's simple seduction techniques. Nothing like Samuel, no delicacy or art. Just an offer, as if unceremoniously setting a mouthwatering plate before a prince. _Are you hungry, Mycroft?_

Truly, though, if it hadn't been for his vulnerable state of arousal preceding the detective's impromptu arrival, he probably wouldn't have considered the offer. As it was, his cold blood had idled to warmth and now burned in his arteries, leaving his chest tight and breath shallow...............

“Mycroft! What are you TELLING me?!” John snapped, his ears red from the story Mycroft had been relaying to him. It hadn’t been an explicit account up to this point but the Holmes brothers had similarly unique ways of venerable, precise articulation that left John‘s brain spinning with immersive imagery. This was turning out to be a bit not good.

“It seems that the inspector and I are now an item, as it were.”

A silent, mortified moment passed. John shot from his chair, “Sherlock! Save me from your brother!”

The baritone voice called from the bedroom where Sherlock was changing out of his experiment-splattered clothes, “Whatever you are doing, Mycroft, stop it.”

“He’s shagging Greg Lestrade!” John strode resolutely to the bedroom door, stopping outside and staring at it in disbelief at what he had just said.

Silence. The door swung open. Sherlock gaped like a fish out of water, promptly clenched his mouth shut and stepped into the kitchen, staring at Mycroft who was perched smugly in Sherlock’s black armchair.

“No,” was what Sherlock finally declared.

John stood behind and to the side of his partner, arms crossed defensively over his chest. Both men were glaring at the prim and proper presence of Mycroft Holmes.

“Domestic bliss has done little for your communication skills, brother mine,” Mycroft replied sweetly, a lascivious smile cresting the devilish visage.

“So, it’s true,” John prodded, eyes sparkling.

Mycroft frowned finally at their collective shock, “Of course, it’s true! Why wouldn’t it be true? What’s wrong with it?”

Mycroft hesitated. He hadn’t meant to sound so petulant.

“Poor Lestrade,” John stated matter-of-factly, putting the side of his fist to his growing smile.

“Indeed,” agreed Sherlock.

Mycroft stood, giving a tug to his suit jacket, expression going blank and cold.

John stepped forward, hand out in placation between the brothers, “Wait, no, Mycroft. It’s good. It’s great. We’re just… a little…”

“Disgusted,” Sherlock offered.

“No! Surprised. Really,” John amended.

“At Lestrade, not you, of course,” Sherlock assured Mycroft, “You are the one capable of the most fiendish and duplicitous machinations known to humankind.”

“Oh, I see. You think I am using your friend.”

Sherlock nodded once, “Precisely.”

“Well, you can forgo your tiresome threats of retaliation should that be the case,” Mycroft tilted his chin up, squaring himself, “Despite my better judgement, I am sincerely… _fond_ of the man.”

Sherlock narrowed skeptical eyes at his brother, seeming to deliberate some internal argument within himself, studying Mycroft intently all the while. Suddenly, he seemed to come to a conclusion, “John? Text Lestrade. Tell him he is urgently needed. Here. As soon as possible.”

Mycroft huffed, “And what, pray tell, do you hope to accomplish by that? Do you still not believe me?”

“I do believe you,” Sherlock said softly, a smile catching his lips in a delighted curve, “That’s why we must celebrate.”

Even John faltered at hearing this, his hands pausing at the face of his phone as he texted.

“Because Greg Lestrade deserves the best in life,” Sherlock supplied, his features softening as he acknowledged his brother with a nod, “And love in life is too precious a thing to ignore.”

At this, Sherlock turned his attention to John who felt a swell of emotion fill his chest cavity, “Sherlock,” he reprimanded and shook his head, refusing the impulse to tackle his lover on the floor then and there, and cover him with kisses, “Get the bloody wine, you cock.”

Sherlock waggled his brows and spun to the kitchen, slapping John’s arse on the way.

John just smirked, shook his head and sent the text.

Mycroft watched in abject wonder at the humorous and loving exchange between his little brother and the army doctor who had changed their lives. Mycroft felt a twinge of longing for the same comfortable and enduring affection, and he had one particular NSY police officer in mind. He smiled to himself at his unplanned, unlikely, and unprecedented descent into sentimental ruin. C’est la vie.

**Author's Note:**

> Why Mystrade?... because sometimes Johnlock hurts too much. I am puppyburgers and needunbound on tumblr. Also, Spyre on ffn. This is my first Mystrade fic, and only my third Sherlockian fic. Lemme know whatchu think, or if you have any prompts! Feedback feeds us. Thank you so much for the time you took to read this! My hope is that you enjoyed it.
> 
> Check out emmagrant01 on AO3. Amazeballs author. Mad love.


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